


Happy Birthday, Dean

by waywardelle



Series: Pillow Talk [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester's Birthday, Fluff, M/M, Season/Series 11, happy birthday dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:59:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/pseuds/waywardelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam continues the tradition of wishing Dean a happy birthday in their own special way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, Dean

**Author's Note:**

> just wanted to write a little something for the love of my life, Dean Winchester. Happy birthday, old man.

As the clock strikes midnight on January 24th, Sam has his knees planted on either side of Dean’s hips, with those wide-scratchy hands holding him prone so he can’t move, can’t run the show. His head is tipped back, and he’s staring blankly at the ceiling while little mewls are escaping his locked-open jaw. His brother’s thrusts can take on the force of a battering ram, and he’d let Sam adjust his stance until Dean’s cock was at the tip of Sam’s prostate, then locked him down to assault that little nerve over and over until Sam’s cock started leaking long, stringy-clear puddles down his own swollen cock, gathering in a puddle against Dean’s lower belly.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Dean grunts, his eyes clenched in concentration, gnawing on his bottom lip against the feeling of it all. “That big cock wants to come s’bad, Sammy, just let it go, baby. Give it to me.”

Dean’s determined to get him to come on his dick alone, no hand-to-cock combat, and even though at the beginning Sam had argued that he’s not sixteen anymore, that orgasms aren’t as guaranteed as a stiff wind blowing from the North, he can feel that familiar building pressure at the base of his spine. He concentrates on how it feels, how it really feels to have Dean fucking up his insides, the delicate muscles parting against such a lovely, smooth intrusion, the way it always kind of hurts but it’s more of a pressure, more of a fullness, and it’s always intense, always so goddamn all-consuming to have his brother up there, feeling around in his guts. 

“I can see myself,” Dean moans, awe-wonder in his voice, releasing a sweaty hand from Sam’s finger-bruised hip to press against the cockhead peeking shyly through the thin skin of Sam’s lower abdomen. “Lean back for me, baby, lean back, lemme see.”

Sam leans back, balancing on one hand while he uses the other to feel what Dean’s feeling, wrapping his own hand around Dean’s fingers as they feel Dean’s cock punching against his tummy, and the sore-delicious angle, the realization that Dean is so big, so deep inside him sets him off. He nearly breaks his neck with the force of his head snapping back once more, yelling hoarsely at the ceiling as his cock shoots, spurts so hard it hits Dean in the chin, then dribbles down his neck, finally coming to land around Dean’s belly button.

“Money shot,” Sam grins breathlessly, leaning forward again to press his hands on either side of Dean’s head, working his hips in little circles to get his brother dragged over the edge with him, hand-in-hand, Thelma to his Louise. He licks at his release on Dean’s chin, and because he’s a generous kind of guy, he trails his tongue into Dean’s mouth, and Dean moans for that, sucking on the muscle until Sam collapses, fully giving over to the way Dean wants his mouth.

“Do it,” Sam murmurs, wrapping his arms around Dean’s shoulders to hang on. ”Tear me up, big brother.”

Ten minutes later, Sam is limping dreamily down the hall to the kitchen. He left Dean half-asleep and grumbling about the loss of Sam’s body heat, drooling into the pillow with come drying in his sparse chest hair. Chances are Dean has no idea what today is, but Sam is always determined to do something special on this day (especially since Sam’s birthdays tend to be horrifying). 

He flips on the light to the kitchen, padding over to the fridge to rummage through its contents. There’s a slice of chocolate ice-box pie that Sam secretly ordered with their dinner at the diner, and he had to hide it behind some kale and a wheat-grass smoothie to make sure Dean wouldn’t find it. It’s a little wilted, but Dean won’t care. He gets it on the counter, pulling the candles out of the drawer, one with a 3 and one with a 7, and sticks them into the squishy, mousse-like dessert. The candles won’t stay up right very well, but he balances that and a cold glass of milk in one hand, grabbing for the candle lighter in the other. 

Sam has this ritual, okay, on Dean’s birthday. He might not believe in God much anymore, with the whole it was actually Lucifer speaking to him thing, but he does believe that the universe looks out for him, looks out for his brother. There’s just really no other explanation for how they’re still here, breathing, walking, talking, laughing and loving after all the times they’ve taken their last breaths. He thinks over the dessert, not prays, but thinks, wondering over every breath Dean still takes, every grey hair Dean is alive to sprout, the bad knee, the aching joints in his trigger finger that may be the beginning signs of arthritis. The way the skin under his chin pillows softly, and the strong but soft muscles of the tummy Dean’s not all-too-concerned about anymore. The home Dean has made for them, the way he’s a nester, a home-maker, a putterer, of all things. And the way he takes care of Sam, still, in that unique to Dean way that shows tenderness for Sam as a little brother, respect for him as a partner, passion for him as a lover, affection for him as an-all-but-husband. 

“Thank you for my brother,” he murmurs, lighting the candles. 

He makes the short trip down the hall back to their room, where Dean is sitting up, pouting, waiting for Sam to come back to bed. He’s fucking adorable, that’s the only word for it-- big, bad, scary Dean Winchester is adorable with his bedhead and whiny face, and Sam’s heart swells with so much love (what an insignificant word these days) for him, that tears spring to his eyes, and his voice is a little shaky when he begins.

“Happy birthday to you,” he sings softly, moving into the bedroom where the pie is quickly melting under the heat of the candles, “happy birthday to you,” and Dean’s eyebrows are in his hair, looking both mortified and incredibly pleased, “happy birthday big brother, happy birthday to you.”

Sam’s song ends just as he straddles his brother’s naked hips again, and Dean is smiling up at him with so much aching tenderness, Sam wants to bask in that feeling for the rest of his life. 

“You remembered,” Dean murmurs softly, the same thing he says every year, like it’s a script. 

“Hurry up,” Sam chides, spooning the first bite, “it’s melting. Open up.”

They’re not romantic men, they’re not cheesy. They don’t gaze longingly at each other over candlelight with Ella Fitzgerald crooning in the background. They don’t kiss nearly as often as they should, they hardly ever hold hands, they don’t put a label on their relationship, they don’t really say the “L” word, and they don’t wear rings. They don’t really feel like they need to.

But once a year, Sam feeds Dean his birthday cake or pie or cupcake, then they kiss and kiss and kiss until they fall asleep, sweetness mingling on their tongues. 

And that’s enough for them.


End file.
